Aftermath
by Ruby Rosetta Red
Summary: I'm not entirely sure what this is. Post Endgame. Bobby's thoughts about how he's feeling. One shot.


**Aftermath.**

I know that she's concerned about me. Every time that I look at her I can see the question in her eyes _'are you okay?'_ She knows that I'm not, hell I know that I'm not but I don't answer. I can't.

I deal with it by not talking about it. It's my problem and I'll deal with it. The job right now is a distraction because my mother needs me more than ever and I want to be the good son that I am and be there for her. I try but she gets frustrated. And I end up feeling guilty.

I can't focus on anything. My brain just doesn't want to hold onto information and as a result I feel slow, stupid and right now I just don't care. It's an effort to concentrate, to listen, and just be.

Things reached a head at Thanksgiving. My mother was having treatment, she was fidgety, paranoid, worried and she relied on me. And I got called in on a job. I couldn't get out of it though I tried. Shouldn't the fact that I asked them if there was anyone else available made them realise that I really couldn't get away. But it was the top brass and they wanted 'the best'. A year ago, two years ago I would've been there without question but now, now I just wanted to be at the hospital, supporting my mother, calming her fears, real and imagined. My mother told me to go, the look on her face made me feel worse than I already did. Choked with guilt, I went.

They really should've tried harder to get a replacement. I just didn't want to be there. I tried but it was useless, the brass was bordering on hostile and weren't prepared to listen, me? Well I just wasn't prepared to bow down to them. My mind was elsewhere and it showed. Finally it just poured out of me, the anger, the frustration, it just overwhelmed and I walked.

She followed me to the elevator and I could see that question in her eyes again. And no I'm not okay, but nobody needs to know that right now.

She tried to support me without me really knowing but I knew. I've worked with her for six years now; she forgets how well I've gotten to know her. I know her little habits; sometimes I feel I can almost read her mind. Part of me was touched but not surprised that she wanted to help, another bigger part just wanted her and everyone else to leave me the hell alone.

After that I took some time off. Nobody disagreed. It was either give me the time or watch me go off in the deep end big time. I guess they all sensed it coming. So, for a couple of weeks I spent the time with my mother and by myself. I didn't answer the phone, I didn't talk to anyone. The buzzing in my head faded away and I began to feel more in control.

But I had to go back to work and you know, I was glad to be back. I felt better, clear-headed and she told me that it was good to have me back and I realised then that I did miss her. I missed her calmness and her dry wit. But I still couldn't talk to her about what was really troubling me. And I knew that it was frustrating her. More guilt on top what I was already feeling

I can't believe that I went into that prison cell so unsuspecting. A prisoner on death row wanted to see me, specifically asked to see me and I went, with Eames and saw him. And who I saw was a man whose mortality was ticking away like the hands of a clock. He was due to be executed and he was a man with nothing to lose. And, seemingly had something to gain.

Everything began to unravel from that point. I wondered why he wanted to see me particularly. And then he dropped clues to more victims, previously unknown victims whose ghastly mementoes he'd prized in some kind of sick scrapbook. I should've realised by the knowing look in his eyes that it wasn't just about the thought of the other victims that got him excited. There was an ace up his sleeve apparently and that ace, as it turned out, was me.

It started with a photograph in one of his scrapbooks. It looked familiar but was too degraded to be conclusive. I thought back to the day before, during a visit to Carmel Ridge. My mom was at her most lucid. She had her photo album out and we were reminiscing. Even Frank was there, reliving those memories with us. We were being careful not to bring up anything too painful, it was as though we both understood that mom's last days were to be as happy as possible and that meant no mention of anything that would upset her. There was a photo of her in a suit that was popular in Jackie Kennedy's day and mom looked…well she was a knockout. It was easy to see why my dad had initially fallen for her; she was stunning. Mom told me she'd gotten it for a song at Gimbles, at a fraction of the price Jackie Kennedy paid for it. The picture Brady had, reminded me of that picture. Then Frank dropped a bombshell, it seemed the Goren family had a history of a kind with Brady. Only we knew him back then as 'Uncle Mark'. But I couldn't remember him, I was four at the time and the presence of 'Uncle Mark' was non-existent to me. Of course Frank remembered him, but me? Nothing. And that nagged at me like a sore tooth.

There was a look about Brady that began to nag at me. Like he was in the possession of a delicious little secret. And in my mom's last days, the secret got out, as secrets are wont to do. There was a possibility that Mark Ford Brady was my biological father. Mom had been in New York in November 1960 with him, I was born the following August. She admitted to me that she had never been sure. Like that was supposed to offer me any kind of comfort. It left me reeling, new questions tumbling around my brain. My mom died, peacefully later that night and ironically, Brady was executed the same evening.

Now I sit with the shadows in my apartment and I stare at the neat white envelope on my kitchen table. It's from a laboratory. Inside that envelope is the decider of my paternity. I pulled some strings and had a sample of Brady's DNA extracted after he was executed. I put up with the experience of having a technician swipe the inside of my cheek for skin cells and I was left to wait.

I still can't tell Eames about what's going on. Nobody, absolutely nobody knows. And I prefer it that way for now though who knows how long I can hold onto this for. Maybe I'll just blurt it out to her one day during a case like I blurted out that my mom was ill with lymphoma. Maybe it'll just stay locked inside me, never to be revealed.

I reach for the envelope and then pause. I realise that I don't have to open the envelope. After all I am Robert Goren, I was never Robert Brady and I never will be. Proof or not of paternity doesn't change who I am. I've thought about the schizophrenia gene, I'm aware of my susceptibility. Do I really need to know who my biological father is? William Goren brought me up but showed no real interest in me, Brady is nothing to me, nothing to me while growing up and sure as hell nothing to me now. But I know that I want to know, for peace of mind and I lift the envelope up and hold it between my fingers and stare at it some more.

The old saying is 'blood will out'. William Goren was a womaniser, a brute, a poor excuse for a father and only interested in himself. He was a bon vivant and a couple of kids cramped his style. I realised pretty quickly my position on his list of priorities. Mark Ford Brady, a sadist, a rapist and an unforgiving murderer. I remember his insinuations, his taunting about my mom, whom he called Bambi. I remember how I just unravelled in there, how I'd pinned him up against the wall with my bare hands and how I had wanted, how I had _wanted_ to crush the life out of him, just to make those sick insinuations stop but it was his words reverberating in my head that made me see reason _'go on, you have it in you to do it'_ and that stopped me cold. Did I really have it in me? Will blood out?

I stare at my name and address neatly typed on the front of the envelope. Then I turn it over and stare at the back. I take a deep breath and break open the seal. I extract the single sheet of paper out of its container but I don't open it. Not just yet and I wonder whether this moment will change my life or not. Slowly I unfold the sheet of paper and turn it over and see the words neatly typed out. At first I just look at them, not comprehending them. I swipe my hand over my face and my eyes slide closed. Do I want to know this for sure? Am I really doing the right thing here? Damn it. I swallow, drop my hand and force myself to focus on the information in front of me.

It's my first day back at Major Case and she's sitting at her desk. There's a cup of coffee on my blotter. She looks up at me and she smiles.

"Hey. You okay?" Her question is general, non intrusive and I smile. This seems to take her aback a little. I sit down and reach for the cup. Old routines never die. The hot brew soothes as I take a sip. I replace the cup back on my blotter and look at her.

"I will be," I tell her.

And I will be.

I will.

**FIN**


End file.
